Why

A common question asked of many subjects.

Today I’m busy asking myself – why? Why am I so sad? Why do I feel depressed? Where did this “woe is me” come from? Why can’t I have that, do that, feel that? Why did I do the things I did when I was young? Why do they seem so contradictory to who I am today? Why would anyone who has loved me for a long time have anything to do with me today when I’m nowhere near the same person that they met?

I find it easy to ask the question, ‘Why not me?’ I recognize that to most people in the world, I live a privileged life. I live in South Florida. I live in a well-manicured, well-kept home on one floor, with a pool in the backyard. I drive a clean sedan. I have two jobs that pay me well; my wife has a career that pays well. 

I know, in the back of my mind, which I realize should be the forefront of my mind, that there are many people in this world who would love my life. Why is it that sometimes I don’t?

I’ve often thought about the strange way we measure a life.

People look from the outside and make assumptions. They see the struggles, the losses, the disappointments, the things I have carried, and quietly conclude they would never want to trade places with me. If they knew the full story with the trauma, the heartbreak, the rejection, the uncertainty, they might thank God for their own lives before quickly moving on.

And yet, if they could somehow step inside my heart instead of merely looking at my circumstances, they might be surprised.

Because I am learning how to appreciate my life.

Not because it has been easy. Not because it has unfolded according to my plans. Certainly not because it has been free of pain. I appreciate it because every difficult chapter has taught me something that comfort never could.

I’ve learned what compassion actually feels like.

I’ve learned that authenticity is worth paying for.

I’ve learned that surviving can become its own kind of victory.

There was a time when I believed life was measured by success, titles, income, or how many people admired you. I chased those things. Some of them I achieved. Yet none of them filled the quiet places inside me.

Ironically, the years that hurt the most have become the years that shaped me the deepest.

Pain has a way of stripping away everything that isn’t real. It forces you to ask uncomfortable questions. Who am I when the applause stops? Who loves me when I can no longer meet everyone’s expectations? What remains when the identity I’ve carefully built no longer fits?

Those questions were terrifying.

They were also liberating.

I have discovered that joy isn’t the absence of suffering. Joy is finding reasons to smile while carrying scars that never completely disappear.

I appreciate simple things now. A good book on a rainy afternoon. A meaningful conversation over coffee. The sound of waves reaching the shore before sunset. The quiet satisfaction of writing words that may help someone else feel less alone.

These moments would have escaped my notice years ago.

I also appreciate the people who stayed.

Life has taught me that love isn’t measured by how many people surround you during your best moments. It’s measured by who quietly sits beside you during your worst ones. Those relationships have become priceless because they were tested by reality instead of convenience.

Most of all, I appreciate becoming myself.

That may sound simple, but authenticity is one of the most expensive gifts life can offer. It often costs comfort, certainty, approval, and sometimes even relationships. Yet once you’ve tasted the freedom of living honestly, you realize nothing else compares.

Would everyone want my life?

On the outside, possibly, but knowing my wife as a whole, probably not.

Honestly, there are days I wouldn’t have chosen this path either if someone had shown me the map in advance.

But looking backward, I wouldn’t erase it.

Every scar has become part of my story. Every disappointment has enlarged my capacity for grace. Every difficult season has given me another reason to understand someone else’s pain.

My life may not be the one people envy from a distance.

But it is mine.

And after everything it has taken to become who I am today, I have learned that appreciating my life has far less to do with what has happened to me than with the person those experiences have allowed me to become.

There are days when sadness settles over me like a heavy gray sky that refuses to clear. It isn’t always tied to one event or one loss. It’s the accumulation of years—the dreams that didn’t unfold the way I imagined, the relationships that changed, the people I’ve loved who no longer walk beside me, and the exhausting work of becoming my authentic self.

Depression has a way of making even ordinary moments feel difficult. It whispers that tomorrow will be no different than today. It steals joy from the things I once loved and replaces hope with weariness. Some mornings, simply getting out of bed feels like an act of courage.

What hurts most is grieving not only what I’ve lost, but also what might have been. I wonder how different life could have looked if I had been able to live honestly from the beginning. Those thoughts can become an ache that lingers beneath everything else.

Yet even in the sadness, a small part of me refuses to disappear. I still believe there is beauty worth finding, stories worth telling, and people worth loving. My depression may shape some of my days, but it does not get the final word about who I am. I continue to hope that healing, however slow, is still possible.

Perhaps the most important question I have ever learned to ask is not What?, When?, or even How? It is Why?

Every meaningful chapter of my life has started with that one simple question.

Asking why has never erased my pain, but it has transformed it. Understanding doesn’t always remove suffering, yet it often removes fear. The things we understand become easier to carry because they no longer seem random or meaningless. They become part of a larger story.

The question why has led me to greater compassion. It has taught me that people often act from wounds I cannot see. It has helped me forgive, not because every action deserves forgiveness, but because understanding softens judgment. It has also taught me to accept myself. Instead of asking why I couldn’t be someone else, I began asking why I am who I am—and discovered that my story, with all its beauty and brokenness, has purpose.

In the end, why is not a question of doubt. It is a question of hope. It assumes there is meaning waiting to be discovered. It invites curiosity instead of condemnation, understanding instead of fear, and acceptance instead of resistance.

Perhaps that is why I keep asking why. Because every honest answer brings me one step closer to peace.